Their routine in the next few days had changed. The only time Wrath would have her wander around the house was when she had the luxury to prepare her own dinner in his own kitchen, if luxury meant to worm herself out of starvation for another day despite the only protein to be human flesh. It took her weeks to get used to the sight of them, in their gaping eyes and frozen expressions. Her only way to alleviate such a revulsive deed is to sever off the heads before doing anything else, dispose of it in a bucket along with the entrails.

A whole corpse wasn’t immediately consumed in a day. She gathered a suitable way to chop up every part and store it in a meat freezer. As someone who had no previous experience in cooking she had to rely on her own smell and taste to concoct a meal for herself. It didn’t start perfectly, yet as nights went by she managed to place something satisfactory on the dinner table.

Wrath had no tolerance in having filth and grime at the dinner table. Once Sin had produced her own dinner she was ordered to scrub herself meticulously with soap and water in the bathroom and slip on a vintage Sunday dress, then be seated before him like a decorous young lady. To Wrath’s scrutiny, the harmony of their scene at the dinner table should remain sacred. To Sin, it felt like pure irony after being chained like a dog.

Conversations at the dinner table weren’t spared. The warmth of liquor was always something Wrath would indulge into while he sat at the other end.

“Were you born Catholic?’ Wrath asked her.

Sin timidly nodded.

Wrath frowned. “Is it your intention to act so docile whenever I ask that question?”

Sin lifted her head. “Would you like to be asked that question?”

Wrath chuckled. He had that certain fondness for derisive responses, especially from her. “I’ve been to a church before,” he said, “to this country, it’s a necessity to construct a place of worship at every corner. People would enter and confess their sins, tread the aisle on their knees as atonement. They see salvation, I see control. Do you know what sin is to me?” He paused and inclined towards her, “Sin is completely superficial. It’s severely complex, and still, they relentlessly associate the idea with death. And until today, everyone who embrace that notion would constantly dread it. Do you know how mankind survives? It’s because they are constantly afraid. Their fear is passed on from one generation to the next. Their fear of sin, it will only place man to be perpetually under control of something irrelevant. You must despise that word, it suits you perfectly.”

Sin, in unflappable indifference to his remarks, remained silent.

“What are you thinking, catholic?” Wrath demanded.

“Those previous meals you served me,” Sin replied, “You didn’t cook them.”

“Why won’t I?”

“Because you can’t. Or if you did, you won’t be able to have them taste the way you wanted. Your organs don’t work. Your heart is an insignificant bulk inside your ribcage. The only thing that makes you feel alive is warmth. That’s probably why it’s necessary for you to drink blood. Days, weeks without it, your body shrivels off its heat and you’re reduced to a frigid corpse. I’m guessing you have a caretaker. And she’s old. And if I’m not here to die, then you abducted me to take her place.”

At that moment, Sin thought she spoke too much. The lingering grin from Wrath dissolving to a glare. Perhaps she secretly wanted it, to die along with the corpses she botched for her supper. She’ll be buried along with them and they’ll embrace her with their severed limbs and gaping mouths. But Wrath’s grin widened and his arms stretched out for a slow clap. “Very clever,” he said, “did you speculate those or did your senses tell you? But you were wrong on two things. The caretaker of this house isn’t a she. And you’re not here to linger in this house until you wither of age. Do you know why I chose you?”

Wrath tilted his head, let the last drop from his wineglass roll into his mouth. He then stood, approached Sin with his gleaming eyes and mischievous grin, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s face it child, you’re dull, you're the kind of girl who slips on a dress, walks by, then takes a gander at every beautiful woman with a slim waist and ample breasts and wonders, why am I not born with that? Those women, they glide like the earth worships them. I do not want someone with her head on the clouds. I want the one who harbors hate. Now finish your dinner.”

She found Wrath in the sitting room after disposing her meal. He had placed a record of Verdi on a vintage record player. His eyes were closed and his fingers raised and ticking in the air. When she came in he looked at her and smiled, then stretched out a hand to beckon her closer.

“Perhaps you wonder how old things are in this house,” he said to her, “objects of the past age gracefully. The more modern contraptions are today, the more they are short-lived.”

“It screams of the past as well,” Sin replied, “the shrill cries and moans of tormented souls, I could hear them latching themselves to the needle. It plagues me.”

Wrath scowled, then lifted the needle off the vinyl. “How fragile you are,” he said, “and how disappointing.”

“I’m sorry that you can’t indulge in a record without me muffling my ears.” Sin replied.

Wrath nodded. “I’ve lived longer than this house,” he said, “I’ve seen men, women and children tossed in piles and buried, structures erected and dismantled, I’ve seen people who claimed they’ve seen ghosts, but not one like you. You hear them and tell me the intensity of their rage and sorrow come in frequencies. How long until you realize you’re not insane?”

Sin replied, “I didn’t”

Her reply was no surprise to Wrath, however it came to Sin abruptly it unnerved her. Perhaps it was something as genuine as a suppressed grudge. No wonder, there was sincere fondness reflecting on Wrath’s face. The madman, she despised him, and still it felt like she would place herself nowhere else.

“Welcome, Sin,” he said, stretching his arms, “welcome to my world.”